Thomas Covenant 8 - The Fatal Revenant (103 page)

The Giants were visibly tired. They had been under too much strain for too long: their huge vitality had begun to fray like overstressed hawsers. But they still had reserves of endurance. And a few swallows of diamondraught

appeared to lift their hearts.

At need, they would fight with the force of gales.

When Galesend released him, Anele moved, blind and sure-footed, toward the center of the crown. There he sat down, wedged into a snug crack between boulders. Bowing his head, he began to stroke the stone and hum as if he wished to soothe it.

Less certain than Anele, Mahrtiir felt his way around the rim of the crest, apparently examining the stones. Then he said to Stave. You comprehend the worth of this vantage’?”

“I do,” replied Stave impassively. “As will the Humbled. I honor your foresight, Manethrall.”

“I merit no honor, Stave of the Haruchai.” Mahrtiir continued his scrutiny of the mound. “I will be of

scant use in these straits.” Then he bared his teeth. “Yet I am gladdened that my devotion to the lessons of struggle and combat has been of service.”

“Manethrall,” Rime Coldspray put in like a reprimand. “your tales are as mournful as Linden Avery’s, and as bitter in their concision. Do not speak of them here.”

“Aye,” Mahrtiir growled under his

breath. “I hear you.” His bandage obscured his eyeless mien.

Muttering empty curses, Linden

scanned the region around the tor.

When she looked to the west, she saw Clyme emerge from the forest. He ran easily; flung himself at the steep sides of the for without obvious difficulty. She saw at a glance that he had told Stave the truth: his injuries were almost entirely healed.

A few moments later, Branl

approached from the northeast. He sped to join Linden and her companions, unhampered by the rugged climb, as if he were as much an acolyte of stone as the Giants. He, too, was nearly whole.

Linden felt Galt’s absence like a burr in her mind. She wanted to wait for him; to hear his report on the movements of the skurj. To postpone as long as possible the moment when she would

need to concentrate on white gold. Every life around her depended on her ability to wield Covenant’s ring. Fearing failure, she hesitated to make the attempt.

For that very reason, however, she could not afford to procrastinate any longer. She could not. Her companions had trapped themselves, and her. The skurj did not yet impinge upon her health-sense, but they were near. Kastenessen was not the Despiser. If

Roger had described him honestly, his driving agony would make him impatient, intolerant of delay. She did not know why he had waited so long—

Now, she commanded herself. Do it now.

Liand still hovered over Pahni.

Nevertheless Linden called his name as if she were callous to his apprehension. When he turned toward her, she said simply, “Here,” and

handed him the Staff of Law.

Instant possibilities flared in his eyes. He had asked her to do this. Perhaps he thought that holding the Staff would enable him to channel more Earthpower through his orcrest.

Linden nodded to him, accepting the promise of his nascent excitement. Then, half cowering as though she felt naked without her Staff, exposed to shame and inadequacy, she clambered

awkwardly toward a flat sheet of basalt within ten paces of the crest’s eastern rim. There she seated herself cross-legged, folded Covenant’s ring in both hands as if she were praying, and tried to think her way to wild magic.

Around her, the Giants drank small sips of diamondraught; talked quietly among themselves; adjusted their armor and readied their weapons. Clyme and Branl watched the east for Galt and peril. Stave waited, apparently

relaxed, beside Linden. At Mahrtiir’s command, the Cords gathered to protect Anele.

Two or three paces beyond the old man, Liand stood alone with the Staff and his unspoken desires.

For the first time, Linden noticed the breeze that gusted over the tor, rustling like whispers among the treetops on all sides. Its touch made her aware of tiny lines of pain like damp streaks on her

cheeks and forehead. She had been scratched during the rush of the Giants through Salva Gildenbourne. Bits of scab crusted her small hurts.

But some of the branches must have caught at her shirt hard enough to snag and tear the red flannel. Minor rents were scattered over her shoulders and down her arms. A few of them held droplets of dried blood. Like the bullet hole over her heart-like the cryptic grass stains on her jeans—the

tears and plucked threads seemed trivial; meaningless. They did not reveal her doom.

Jeremiah needed her. She needed Thomas Covenant. Nothing else mattered.

The door that opened on silver fire lay within her somewhere. She only had to find it.

But when she reached inward, there

was no door. Instead a twist of nausea squirmed in her stomach.

Oh, God! Sudden terror thudded through her. That’s it! That’s what he’s been waiting for!

Hardly realizing what she did, Linden dropped the ring. It dangled, useless, from its chain as she sprang to her feet-

-and Esmer materialized in front of

her as if he had created himself out of wind and sunlight.

Kastenessen’s grandson, by theurgy if not by blood. I serve him utterly. As I also serve you.

Without hesitation, Stave stepped between her and Cail’s son; the son of the merewives. Shouting in surprise, the Giants wheeled. Their ready blades hissed across the breeze. Branl moved toward Stave. Undisturbed or simply

uncaring, Clyme continued to watch for Galt and the skurj.

“Mane and Tail!” Mahrtiir snapped. “Esmer, no! This is not mere betrayal. It is Kastenessen’s triumph, and Fangthane’s.”

If Liand reacted, Linden did not hear or feel it.

Esmer’s presence precluded wild magic. Beyond question, this was what

Kastenessen had been waiting for.

Yet Linden’s terror became dismay as she stared at Esmer. Unconsciously she had expected him to heal himself; to appear immaculate and severe, poised for power. But she was wrong. His graceful cymar hung in tatters, fouled with dirt and blood. And the wounds which he had suffered in his bizarre struggle with the Harrow, Roger, and the Demondim-spawn remained. His flesh had been burned

and torn because he had declined to defend himself. Now his hurts stank of filth. Some of them were festering.

The green seethe of his gaze resembled weeping seas. Dolor and gall twisted his countenance. He looked like he had come to ensure Linden’s death; to make certain that both the Staff of Law and Covenant’s ring fell to Kastenessen-or to Roger and Lord Foul, if Kastenessen disdained such powers.

Coldspray stood behind him. “Is this indeed Esmer?” she asked through her teeth. “Then I will dismiss him.” Raising her stone sword, she demanded, “Turn, caitiff cateran, and make the acquaintance of my glaive.”

Without glancing away from Linden, Esmer cried, “Hold!” The word was a yelp of chagrin.

Sharply Stave said. “Do not, Rime Coldspray. His powers are

unfathomable and virulent. Should he so choose, he will shatter this mound, sweeping us into the maws of the skurj. Your strength will merely provoke him. You cannot prevail.”

Coldspray hesitated, but did not lower her sword. “Linden Avery-” she began; then stopped as if in shock.

Until Mahrtiir barked her name, Linden did not see that the peak of the for teemed with ur-viles and Waynhim.

In silence, they swarmed like shadows around the far taller Giants: several score of them, all that had survived the Harrow, and Roger, and the weapons of the Cavewights. Once again, their lore had enabled them to divine Esmer’s intentions. And they had veiled their presence until he manifested himself. Now they massed around Linden and Cail’s son, encircling Stave and Branl.

“Linden Avery-” Coldspray repeated.

With an effort, she quenched her surprise. “What is your will? Are these the creatures that have aided you? The Demondim-spawn? Why then do they now ward Esmer? We cannot oppose him without harming them.”

In response, the Waynhim and ur-viles began to shout, raucous as wild dogs. Their yipping howls and harsh coughs filled the air. They seemed to cast a pall over the for as if their inherent darkness obscured the sunlight.

None of them brandished weapons. Even the loremaster did not.

Coldspray tried again. “Linden-“

Esmer cut her off. Suddenly disdainful, he rasped, They do not ward me, Giant. That is the import of their speech.

“You possess a gift of tongues obtained from the Elohim. By my will, it is withdrawn. At no time will you be

permitted to comprehend these creatures.

“However, they command me to inform you that they serve the Wildwielder. They acknowledge Giants. They have known the Unhomed, for good or ill. If you strike at them, they will not guard themselves. For her sake, they will raise neither hand nor theurgy against you. Yet you play no part in their desires.”

Coldspray glanced around at her comrades, then shook her head in bafflement. By my will-Apparently Esmer had the power to enforce his word.

Linden had made a promise to the ur-viles and Waynhim. If you can ever figure out how to tell me what you need or want from me, I’ll do it. Now Esmer had erased her only chance to understand them.

“But they also wish you to apprehend,” he continued less scornfully. “that their lore will not slow the skurj. They cannot preserve you.” An emotion that resembled remorse troubled his gaze. “They intend only to ensure that I may harm neither you nor any of the Wildwielder’s companions. If they mean to proffer some further service, they do not speak of it.”

The lronhand’s shoulders sagged. As if in defeat, she dropped her glaive back

into its sheath. “Then we must perish, son of malice. Kastenessen’s beasts are too many. We cannot defeat them without wild magic-and we are informed that your presence prevents any use of white gold.

Is that your purpose? Will you impose our deaths?”

“It is my nature.” Hauteur fumed like spray from Esmer’s eyes, but his voice winced. “I am made to be what I am. I

do not command the skurj. Like them, I am commanded.”

Fierce with alarm and granite rage, Linden wanted to retort; but Stave spoke first. Facing Esmer impassively, he said, “You are swift to cast blame, Esmer mere-son. It is your word that because of the Haruchai ‘there will be endless havoc.’ Yet is it not sooth that you fault Cail your sire and his kindred for your deeds rather than for theirs? The ‘havoc’ will be of your making, not

ours. When we fall”-his tone sharpened-“we fall by your hand, Esmer, not by any act or reticence of the Haruchai.”

Esmer flinched. But he did not respond. And he did not withdraw.

Before Linden could voice her own accusations, Clyme announced, “Galt approaches.” His voice carried, blunt as a fist, through the clamor of the Demondim-spawn. The skurj follow.

They do not hasten, but they come.”

Involuntarily Linden imagined a path of blight and withering in Salva Gildenbourne’s abundance, formed by the fiery passage of Kastenessen’s monsters.

Are they eighteen?” asked Coldspray tensely. “Does that remain Galt’s count?”

It does,” Clyme answered. He has

discerned no others.”

Branl’s lack of expression suggested a sneer as he turned abruptly away from Linden, Esmer, and Stave. The ur-viles and Waynhim parted for him: their barking subsided as if they had given up demanding translation. A few of them watched Branl join Coldspray and Clyme. Others shifted their attention toward Anele and Liand.

“Eighteen.” The Ironhand bowed her

head. “It cannot be done.” But then she raised her chin, bared her teeth. “Nevertheless we will attempt it.”

Her eyes flared dangerously as she began positioning her comrades to defend the tor.

Linden had tried before: she tried again. But she found no wild magic within herself. The door was gone. The sick clench of her stomach confirmed its absence. She could not pierce the

barrier imposed by Esmer’s proximity.

And she could not oppose the skurj effectively with her Staff: not while Kevin’s Dirt held sway.

Nevertheless she was not beaten. She refused to accept it. Aid and betrayal. Esmer’s presence was a betrayal. Therefore he was vulnerable. His divided nature would compel him to help her, if she could ask the right questions, insist on the right answers;

find the right lever—

You must be the first to drink of the EarthBlood.

His gaze remained fixed on her as if none of her companions existed. He ignored the Demondim-spawn. In a voice that steamed with pleading, he asked. “Wildwielder, why have you come to this place?” His wounds seemed to ooze concern like pus. “What madness drives you? Have you

not been told that you must not enter Andelain? Do you hear neither friend nor foe?”

Linden shook her head. “Damn it, Esmer,” she countered. “can’t you even heal yourself? Is this really what Kastenessen wants’?” Or Lord Foul?

She intended to put as much pressure on Esmer as she could. And she was not going to reveal her underlying purpose: the bedrock on which she had

founded all of her actions since Melenkurion Skyweir.

His manner stiffened. “I have inherited many gifts. There is no healing among them.”

Cruelly Linden insisted, “Your own grandfather wants you like this?” Flagrantly wounded, suppurating with pain. “He doesn’t want you whole?’

Esmer squirmed. “Delivering the

Demondim-spawn to this time, I displeased him. Defending them against the Harrow, I displeased him greatly. His wrath is boundless. Therefore I am here.”

Behind him, Galt appeared on the rim of the mound. The Master’s chest heaved, demanding air, but he did not look weak or hurt-or troubled. “They come,” he informed Coldspray and the other Giants. “Strength alone will not avail against them. Yet we will strive to

create opportunities for your blades.”

The Ironhand nodded grimly. “Aye. Some few of them we will slay, with your aid. Then we must pray that they do not pause to feast upon their fallen and multiply.”